I’m a little bit scared. D-Day has finally arrived. I’m going into hospital tomorrow for my operation. I don’t like the idea of a general anaesthetic. I don’t like the thought of losing control. I remember the sensation from having my wisdom teeth removed; a slow backward count into oblivion. Of course my mind is filling rather with catastrophic thoughts. What if they find something more sinister? What if they give me the wrong amount of anaesthetic? What if I wake up and accuse the nurse of being the Angel Gabriel? (This happened the last time I went under.) I don’t much like the idea of waiting at the hospital, either; reading women’s magazines with sweaty palms whilst people call me David. I’m not allowed to eat, or even drink water. Torture.
I worked in Costa Coffee until about 2pm, and then went to Bethnal Green to meet the wonderful woman who runs the Lesbian and Gay Christian Group. She’s incredibly sensible and utterly inspiring and I have no idea why good Christian folk wouldn’t want to adopt the sort of Christianity that she preaches.
I came home via Muswell Hill where I bought some potatoes, some Halloumi cheese and a miniature white board to write on during the week when I’m not allowed to talk. I felt a bit pathetic carrying it home on the bus.
I made tea and put the Halloumi in herbs and bread crumbs and fried it in a pan. It was absolutely delicious.
We went for a walk on Hampstead Heath, and called in on Vera and Bob on the way. I haven’t seen them for ages, and she looked incredibly well. She used to have raven black hair, but has allowed it to go a wonderful silver colour. They’ve had a run of very bad luck of late, though. Someone stole their car and left it smashed to smithereens in Camden Town. There have been various health problems, and they lost a fair amount of money to a con man, who they rumbled, but only after he’d managed to do some damage to their house. We talked about old friends. Billie is now in a home. Sandy has moved to Spain. You turn your back for a year or so, and nothing is the same.
We found ourselves on the heath just as it got dimpsy. Kite Hill, as usual, was buzzing. A young man was teaching his girlfriend to play a tune on the ukulele. I love that place.
Friday 7th June, 1661, and Pepys had dinner with Lady Sandwich, who treated him “very kindly.” He went back to the office, and worked til late, the only interruption being from Sir William Batten, who had returned from his country estate in Chatham with a bad case of toothache.
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Monday, 6 June 2011
A useless conductor
We’re in the A and E at The Whittington Hospital. I often find myself sitting here with Nathan. Today’s problem is his ankle. During a rather speedy strip in the wings of Naked Boys Singing, he managed to injure himself somehow. He’s been putting up with the pain, and the swelling for long enough, so I’ve frog-marched him down here. It’s a shame I don’t have my Mum in tow as well. She’s injured her knee rather badly and is insisting on a mere visit to the GP, which will almost certainly turn into a trip to the hospital, because the GP won’t be able to administer antibiotics to solve the problem.
I’ve been up in Highgate Village all day sitting in Costa Coffee writing music. I’d forgotten how good it feels to do a full day’s work up there. There’s an immense sense of achievement which comes from having worked, uninterrupted for at least 7 hours. Sitting at home invariably brings myriad distractions. The television goes on for a bit of company. The dishes get washed in an act of gross procrastination. I make toast. I play with the rats. The only problem with Costa is that it makes my clothes smell – like a working class family; a sort of mix of cheap coffee and chip fat. Add wee and broken biscuits to the blend, and you have the smell of many of my classmates in the 1980s.
I’ve been working on Mr Blue Sky today, and the Agnus Dei from my Requiem. Mr Blue Sky is a deceptively complicated piece of music; which features one of the most ambitious chord sequences in pop. The original track is also slightly sharp, which makes it almost impossible to transcribe – particularly towards the end of the song, when ELO, as usual, go way over the top with choirs, string sections and D flat major diminished chords. When I finally nail it, however, it will be perfect fodder for our choir.
As we drove up the Archway Road, we passed a woman standing by the side of the road who was holding a camera skywards. We strained to see what she was attempting to photograph, but could only make out a few ribbons of red light hovering just above the horizon. A few seconds later, however, we saw the joy. The setting sun was not just enormous, it was the colour of a strawberry! We often talk about a blood red sky, but usually there’s more than a splodge of orange in the mix. This sun was red. Red, red, red. Like a strawberry slush puppy. Like a chilli pepper. Like a 134 bus. Sadly, our elation was short lived. As we pulled into a petrol station, the miraculous sun disappeared forever. Five minutes later, we were moaning about the fact that a full tank of petrol had set us back £75.
We went to the Heath for a quick stroll. The rain earlier in the day had brought out all sorts of heady smells, which made the experience quite extraordinary. At the top of Kite Hill, a couple were sitting on a bench underneath a blanket, staring out across the twinkling lights of London. It's easy to forget quite what a tonic Hampstead Heath can be when you're feeling a little blue. It is a magical and deeply inspiring spot any time of the day, any time of the year.
350 years ago, and Pepys woke up with the mother of all hangovers; the product of an evening sitting under the moon drinking claret with one of the Sir Williams; “my head hath aked all night” wrote Pepys, “and all this morning, with my last night’s debauch.”
Pepys made a journey to Greenwich with Lieutenant Lambert, who told him many things about boats and Navy matters en route, which Pepys found “of good use.” The two men went to the Globe, a pub in the village, where a very early example of an automaton (a "motion") had been attached to an organ. It appears to have been a figure of a woman, we don't know how big, who held a stick in her hand, which appeared to move in time to the music. Pepys described it as “too simple,” but think about this; the earliest references to music being conducted with batons (rather than hands, or banging a staff on the floor) would appear to date from the early 18th Century, so could this wooden lady be the first reference to conducting in history? I like to think so! Judge for yourself:
There we went and eat and drank and heard musique at the Globe, and saw the simple motion that is there of a woman with a rod in her hand keeping time to the musique while it plays, which is simple, methinks.
I’ve been up in Highgate Village all day sitting in Costa Coffee writing music. I’d forgotten how good it feels to do a full day’s work up there. There’s an immense sense of achievement which comes from having worked, uninterrupted for at least 7 hours. Sitting at home invariably brings myriad distractions. The television goes on for a bit of company. The dishes get washed in an act of gross procrastination. I make toast. I play with the rats. The only problem with Costa is that it makes my clothes smell – like a working class family; a sort of mix of cheap coffee and chip fat. Add wee and broken biscuits to the blend, and you have the smell of many of my classmates in the 1980s.
I’ve been working on Mr Blue Sky today, and the Agnus Dei from my Requiem. Mr Blue Sky is a deceptively complicated piece of music; which features one of the most ambitious chord sequences in pop. The original track is also slightly sharp, which makes it almost impossible to transcribe – particularly towards the end of the song, when ELO, as usual, go way over the top with choirs, string sections and D flat major diminished chords. When I finally nail it, however, it will be perfect fodder for our choir.
As we drove up the Archway Road, we passed a woman standing by the side of the road who was holding a camera skywards. We strained to see what she was attempting to photograph, but could only make out a few ribbons of red light hovering just above the horizon. A few seconds later, however, we saw the joy. The setting sun was not just enormous, it was the colour of a strawberry! We often talk about a blood red sky, but usually there’s more than a splodge of orange in the mix. This sun was red. Red, red, red. Like a strawberry slush puppy. Like a chilli pepper. Like a 134 bus. Sadly, our elation was short lived. As we pulled into a petrol station, the miraculous sun disappeared forever. Five minutes later, we were moaning about the fact that a full tank of petrol had set us back £75.
We went to the Heath for a quick stroll. The rain earlier in the day had brought out all sorts of heady smells, which made the experience quite extraordinary. At the top of Kite Hill, a couple were sitting on a bench underneath a blanket, staring out across the twinkling lights of London. It's easy to forget quite what a tonic Hampstead Heath can be when you're feeling a little blue. It is a magical and deeply inspiring spot any time of the day, any time of the year.
350 years ago, and Pepys woke up with the mother of all hangovers; the product of an evening sitting under the moon drinking claret with one of the Sir Williams; “my head hath aked all night” wrote Pepys, “and all this morning, with my last night’s debauch.”
Pepys made a journey to Greenwich with Lieutenant Lambert, who told him many things about boats and Navy matters en route, which Pepys found “of good use.” The two men went to the Globe, a pub in the village, where a very early example of an automaton (a "motion") had been attached to an organ. It appears to have been a figure of a woman, we don't know how big, who held a stick in her hand, which appeared to move in time to the music. Pepys described it as “too simple,” but think about this; the earliest references to music being conducted with batons (rather than hands, or banging a staff on the floor) would appear to date from the early 18th Century, so could this wooden lady be the first reference to conducting in history? I like to think so! Judge for yourself:
There we went and eat and drank and heard musique at the Globe, and saw the simple motion that is there of a woman with a rod in her hand keeping time to the musique while it plays, which is simple, methinks.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
And we laughed and laughed and laughed
We had lunch at Cafe Rouge in Highgate today before driving down to the Southbank to celebrate our friend Ian's birthday. It was a lovely, cosmopolitan crowd. I often shy away from meeting new faces, but felt very comfortable chatting today.
What a difference a day makes when it comes to the weather. It's done nothing but tip it down all day, and we've taken a couple of proper soakings. I'm looking out of our sitting room window at hundreds of shimmering halogen needles hurtling down underneath the street lights.
I've now added up all the marks I've received for the various gravestone inscriptions. The most popular by far belongs to a person called Yasi, who died in 2000, and is buried out in Brookwood Cemetery. It simply reads "and we laughed and laughed and laughed..."
350 years ago, Pepys kicked things off by giving his wife Elizabeth 4l to spend on lace. She pottered off to the shops, no doubt with a big smile on her face, whilst he went to see his friend Robert Slingsby to play a game of bowls in an alley somewhere in the City.
Back at home, the very hot weather took Pepys out onto his roof, where he sat for hours playing the flageolet. He was joined by Sir William Penn who was in his shirt sleeves. The two men sang until midnight under the light of the moon. They drank claret and ate Bortarga (a Spanish fish delicacy) with bread and butter. Sounds idyllic.
What a difference a day makes when it comes to the weather. It's done nothing but tip it down all day, and we've taken a couple of proper soakings. I'm looking out of our sitting room window at hundreds of shimmering halogen needles hurtling down underneath the street lights.
I've now added up all the marks I've received for the various gravestone inscriptions. The most popular by far belongs to a person called Yasi, who died in 2000, and is buried out in Brookwood Cemetery. It simply reads "and we laughed and laughed and laughed..."
350 years ago, Pepys kicked things off by giving his wife Elizabeth 4l to spend on lace. She pottered off to the shops, no doubt with a big smile on her face, whilst he went to see his friend Robert Slingsby to play a game of bowls in an alley somewhere in the City.
Back at home, the very hot weather took Pepys out onto his roof, where he sat for hours playing the flageolet. He was joined by Sir William Penn who was in his shirt sleeves. The two men sang until midnight under the light of the moon. They drank claret and ate Bortarga (a Spanish fish delicacy) with bread and butter. Sounds idyllic.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
I'm not actually mute
I felt quite lonely today. It was boiling hot outside, and I really should have been having a picnic or something, but couldn’t think of anyone to call. Instead, I went for a run, and then strolled up into the village to do some writing in Costa. It didn’t feel like much fun to be working on a glorious Saturday, but it seemed a great deal better than sitting at home feeling sorry for myself. I started working on an arrangement of Mr Blue Sky for the choir I'm going to set up as soon as I've built up a body of music for them to perform. It’s a fabulous song, that I've known since my childhood, and I think it will work brilliantly as an a capella choral piece; a sort of encore.
At the moment I guess I'm just trying to stack up a load of composing work that I can busy myself with in the aftermath of my operation on Wednesday. I won’t be able to talk for a week, which is going to be a fairly bizarre experience. I refuse to sit and watch television, however, so have decided to bury myself in composing. I was aiming to go away and sit by the sea, silently and pale-faced like something from Death In Venice, but I guess it's not very practical to go somewhere strange, armed only with a little note pad and a laminated card that says; "I'm not actually a mute..."
Tuesday 4th June 1660, and Pepys went to look at some houses in the vicinity of the Navy Office. Comptroller, Robert Slingsby, had decided that a bit of house-swapping was in order. Pepys didn’t much like the options he was being presented with, so for the time being the verdict was that everyone would stay put. He spent the rest of the day wandering around London - at fairly high speeds by all accounts. First he was Bankside, then he was at the Temple, then he was drinking with his family at the Bear Tavern, then he was watching Henry 4th at the theatre. The day ended with a walk across the fields to Southwark - I love the idea that you could walk across fields to Southwark – and a quick strum on his lute before bed.
At the moment I guess I'm just trying to stack up a load of composing work that I can busy myself with in the aftermath of my operation on Wednesday. I won’t be able to talk for a week, which is going to be a fairly bizarre experience. I refuse to sit and watch television, however, so have decided to bury myself in composing. I was aiming to go away and sit by the sea, silently and pale-faced like something from Death In Venice, but I guess it's not very practical to go somewhere strange, armed only with a little note pad and a laminated card that says; "I'm not actually a mute..."
Tuesday 4th June 1660, and Pepys went to look at some houses in the vicinity of the Navy Office. Comptroller, Robert Slingsby, had decided that a bit of house-swapping was in order. Pepys didn’t much like the options he was being presented with, so for the time being the verdict was that everyone would stay put. He spent the rest of the day wandering around London - at fairly high speeds by all accounts. First he was Bankside, then he was at the Temple, then he was drinking with his family at the Bear Tavern, then he was watching Henry 4th at the theatre. The day ended with a walk across the fields to Southwark - I love the idea that you could walk across fields to Southwark – and a quick strum on his lute before bed.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Opening a terrifying book
It’s boiling outside. I went for a run to Crouch End, and came back feeling like an autumn leaf. I tried my hardest to stick to the shade, but it seemed that every time I needed to run up a hill, there was no shade to be found.
This morning I went to Victoria to meet a chap who was attacked in Clapham by three homophobic thugs the same weekend as Philip. It’s deeply shocking to think that this sort of thing happens so often that two similar attacks could have taken place within 24 hours of one another. Doing this research is like opening a terrifying book or watching Bambi turn into a horror film.
I came back home via Oxford Street. Heaven knows why I got off the tube there. I guess I thought I might do a bit of window shopping, but immediately regretted my decision. Being a man in the world of the High Street is no laughing matter. The men’s department of shops are always either at the back or on the top floor. I guess women are more likely to be drawn in by window displays and such. Unfortunately, all shops are also designed to take you on a merry tour before you can get out. The exit staircases are always in an inaccessible part of the building, which you have to fight your way towards through countless aisles and rails of clothing. I assume you’re meant to be tempted into buying something else, but I was simply thrown into a claustrophobic panic!
There’s not a great deal more to say about today. I spent the afternoon composing. I think I wrote some good stuff; a nice Requiem theme amongst other little doodles. It was so hot, though, that I was desperate to sit at the piano with the window open, but the idea that anyone might be able to listen to the wails and crashes I make whilst I’m composing is utterly horrific.
350 years ago, Pepys went to see Lord Sandwich at the Wardrobe. Sandwich was off to sea, and wanted to take Pepys through all sorts of permutations regarding what would happen if various people died whilst he was away, or more importantly, if he himself died at sea. Pepys finally got an opportunity to ask him if he would consider finding a post for Pepys Senior at the Wardrobe, and Sandwich promised to do what he could.
Pepys walked Sandwich to his barge, and then went home to dine with a bewildering number of family members and friends, all of whom seemed to turn up unannounced. An afternoon of merriment ensued, which cost Pepys “a great store of wine.” In the early evening he went to the Tower of London with Mr Creed, and they walked around the grounds, which Pepys had never done before. He found the experience hugely pleasurable. He returned home and went for a pre-bed stroll with Elizabeth on the leads (the roof) of his house. The weather had obviously improved.
This morning I went to Victoria to meet a chap who was attacked in Clapham by three homophobic thugs the same weekend as Philip. It’s deeply shocking to think that this sort of thing happens so often that two similar attacks could have taken place within 24 hours of one another. Doing this research is like opening a terrifying book or watching Bambi turn into a horror film.
I came back home via Oxford Street. Heaven knows why I got off the tube there. I guess I thought I might do a bit of window shopping, but immediately regretted my decision. Being a man in the world of the High Street is no laughing matter. The men’s department of shops are always either at the back or on the top floor. I guess women are more likely to be drawn in by window displays and such. Unfortunately, all shops are also designed to take you on a merry tour before you can get out. The exit staircases are always in an inaccessible part of the building, which you have to fight your way towards through countless aisles and rails of clothing. I assume you’re meant to be tempted into buying something else, but I was simply thrown into a claustrophobic panic!
There’s not a great deal more to say about today. I spent the afternoon composing. I think I wrote some good stuff; a nice Requiem theme amongst other little doodles. It was so hot, though, that I was desperate to sit at the piano with the window open, but the idea that anyone might be able to listen to the wails and crashes I make whilst I’m composing is utterly horrific.
350 years ago, Pepys went to see Lord Sandwich at the Wardrobe. Sandwich was off to sea, and wanted to take Pepys through all sorts of permutations regarding what would happen if various people died whilst he was away, or more importantly, if he himself died at sea. Pepys finally got an opportunity to ask him if he would consider finding a post for Pepys Senior at the Wardrobe, and Sandwich promised to do what he could.
Pepys walked Sandwich to his barge, and then went home to dine with a bewildering number of family members and friends, all of whom seemed to turn up unannounced. An afternoon of merriment ensued, which cost Pepys “a great store of wine.” In the early evening he went to the Tower of London with Mr Creed, and they walked around the grounds, which Pepys had never done before. He found the experience hugely pleasurable. He returned home and went for a pre-bed stroll with Elizabeth on the leads (the roof) of his house. The weather had obviously improved.
Thursday, 2 June 2011
Socially unacceptable
Another scorching day in the capital and the tube feels like a fan-assisted oven. Thankfully a window is open somewhere, and I'm getting periodic blasts of a cooling breeze, which is just about preventing me from wanting to punch the woman who's sweating arm pit juices onto my wrist. No wonder everyone in London is grumpy.
I've been in Hoxton all day. I had a meeting this morning to discuss a Soho-based film project, which would be very exciting were it to come off. We went to the swanky Shoreditch House and sat on sofas in front of an enormous window, which seemed to look out over the world. That place is so fancy. It even has a roof-top swimming pool, which I was desperate to dive into. Unfortunately, I suspect throwing myself in would have been socially unacceptable. I suspect the pool is there simply as a glistening backdrop for preening and pouting. One is only allowed to dive in if one is an adonis involved in a photoshoot for a glossy magazine. I felt like a fish out of water, really, and it must have showed, for I was far too regularly stopped and asked if I was okay by members of staff who were plainly insinuating that I didn't belong there! "Are you okay, Sir?" [trans, "please leave this place, you're bringing it down with your shuffling, bohemian, poverty-stricken vibe. You're making cool people feel embarrassed to express their superiority.]
I went to see Philippa and Deia in the afternoon, and we did some gardening. I massacred an out-of-control sage plant, which Philippa described as her lovely sage forest. If by forest she meant a terrifying, hitherto unexplored eco-system, then she was bang on the money. It seemed to be a breeding ground for more moths and mosquitos than I could wave a pair of pinking shears at, and it absolutely had to go! Deia was particularly good company all day. One of the few benefits of being horribly unemployed is that I get to spend more time with those two.
In the early evening I visited two gay bars in Hoxton. At the moment we're attempting to either prove or disprove the idea that there might be a link between the rise in homophobia in Tower Hamlets and the questionable views of a fair number of its young Muslim residents. Sadly, no one wants to talk about the enormous elephant in the room, because by acknowledging its presence they run the risk of being called xenophobic. Scratch the surface, however, and you'll find a frightening number of gay people in the area admitting to crossing roads to avoid gangs of young Muslim lads and deliberately avoiding side streets for fear of attack. Yet they still feel uncomfortable joining up the dots, which is particularly irritating when we start to look at the double standards knocking around. The guy who stuck stickers on buildings all over the East End which said "gay free zone" whilst quoting the Koran, was today fined a mere £100.
On a totally unrelated issue, I really fancy a tomato this evening, but am worried about this E-coli outbreak. Usually us vegetarians get to feel somewhat smug when the food scares happen, because they're so often associated with meat. What is life without tomato?!
Sunday June 2nd, 1661. Whitsunday. Pepys had an early appointment with his barber, who no doubt spruced him up nicely for church. Probably just a shave and a little trim. People did wash their hair in scented water at the time, but Pepys hated getting his extremities wet. In fact, he frequently complained about the dangers of washing feet. Poor Elizabeth!
After attending church, twice, he was visited by his new buddy, Ralph Greatorex, who was expected for lunch, but obviously got his timings muddled up. Greatorex was an instrument maker and an inventor, and the two men sat in Pepys’ chamber drinking wine and eating anchovies, whilst Greatorex talked mathematics. “Among others he showed me how it comes to pass the strength that levers have, and he showed me that what is got as to matter of strength is lost by them as to matter of time.” Whatever, really. I have no idea whether this is an illuminating theory, or just 17th Century quazi-scientific clap-trap. I suspect all this was written just before Newton, or whoever, was attacked by the apple.
It had rained all day, as it had for many days, and Greatorex rather outstayed his welcome by waiting for the rain to clear before leaving. He may have had one of London’s greatest minds, but he was obviously also a crashing bore!
I've been in Hoxton all day. I had a meeting this morning to discuss a Soho-based film project, which would be very exciting were it to come off. We went to the swanky Shoreditch House and sat on sofas in front of an enormous window, which seemed to look out over the world. That place is so fancy. It even has a roof-top swimming pool, which I was desperate to dive into. Unfortunately, I suspect throwing myself in would have been socially unacceptable. I suspect the pool is there simply as a glistening backdrop for preening and pouting. One is only allowed to dive in if one is an adonis involved in a photoshoot for a glossy magazine. I felt like a fish out of water, really, and it must have showed, for I was far too regularly stopped and asked if I was okay by members of staff who were plainly insinuating that I didn't belong there! "Are you okay, Sir?" [trans, "please leave this place, you're bringing it down with your shuffling, bohemian, poverty-stricken vibe. You're making cool people feel embarrassed to express their superiority.]
I went to see Philippa and Deia in the afternoon, and we did some gardening. I massacred an out-of-control sage plant, which Philippa described as her lovely sage forest. If by forest she meant a terrifying, hitherto unexplored eco-system, then she was bang on the money. It seemed to be a breeding ground for more moths and mosquitos than I could wave a pair of pinking shears at, and it absolutely had to go! Deia was particularly good company all day. One of the few benefits of being horribly unemployed is that I get to spend more time with those two.
In the early evening I visited two gay bars in Hoxton. At the moment we're attempting to either prove or disprove the idea that there might be a link between the rise in homophobia in Tower Hamlets and the questionable views of a fair number of its young Muslim residents. Sadly, no one wants to talk about the enormous elephant in the room, because by acknowledging its presence they run the risk of being called xenophobic. Scratch the surface, however, and you'll find a frightening number of gay people in the area admitting to crossing roads to avoid gangs of young Muslim lads and deliberately avoiding side streets for fear of attack. Yet they still feel uncomfortable joining up the dots, which is particularly irritating when we start to look at the double standards knocking around. The guy who stuck stickers on buildings all over the East End which said "gay free zone" whilst quoting the Koran, was today fined a mere £100.
On a totally unrelated issue, I really fancy a tomato this evening, but am worried about this E-coli outbreak. Usually us vegetarians get to feel somewhat smug when the food scares happen, because they're so often associated with meat. What is life without tomato?!
Sunday June 2nd, 1661. Whitsunday. Pepys had an early appointment with his barber, who no doubt spruced him up nicely for church. Probably just a shave and a little trim. People did wash their hair in scented water at the time, but Pepys hated getting his extremities wet. In fact, he frequently complained about the dangers of washing feet. Poor Elizabeth!
After attending church, twice, he was visited by his new buddy, Ralph Greatorex, who was expected for lunch, but obviously got his timings muddled up. Greatorex was an instrument maker and an inventor, and the two men sat in Pepys’ chamber drinking wine and eating anchovies, whilst Greatorex talked mathematics. “Among others he showed me how it comes to pass the strength that levers have, and he showed me that what is got as to matter of strength is lost by them as to matter of time.” Whatever, really. I have no idea whether this is an illuminating theory, or just 17th Century quazi-scientific clap-trap. I suspect all this was written just before Newton, or whoever, was attacked by the apple.
It had rained all day, as it had for many days, and Greatorex rather outstayed his welcome by waiting for the rain to clear before leaving. He may have had one of London’s greatest minds, but he was obviously also a crashing bore!
Thank God for cake and friends
We’re heading back from Limehouse, and I'm feeling like a very lucky man. A group of 14 of us have just gathered together for a couple of hours at Julian’s studio to form an ad hoc choir to sing through a composition I wrote about a year and a half ago. It was really nice to hear it coming to life. It’s always so exciting when a work leaps off the page for the first time. We rehearsed the song for just an hour and then spent an hour recording it. It sounds wonderful. It’s just for fun, really. Composers often have unperformed music lying around in their bottom drawers, so occasionally it’s heartening to have a root around, dust a few manuscripts off and have a bit of a play.
It’s reminded me how much I want to form a 16-voice choir. The idea would be for us to go professional very speedily, and put ourselves up for work in pop music, alongside premiering new work and performing music by other composers with a documentary twist. Various works by Berio spring to mind.
The group of singers tonight were such a talented and nice bunch. There was so much good will. Ellie came up from East Sussex, Tash came down from Northamptonshire. Sam conducted. A lot of the others were involved in the Pepys project, but there were some new faces as well. We went drinking afterwards in a lovely pub by the river and one of the singers, Nigel, kept us more than entertained with various impersonations and a bluffers guide to British sign language.
This morning I had a meeting at the BBC to talk about the homophobia film, which frustratingly still hasn’t been commissioned. We’re going away to look at a few extra avenues of research. There’s no point in doing this film unless we do it properly and I’m glad that BBC London are being thorough.
I laughed a lot this morning whilst watching BBC Breakfast, when a very pregnant Kate Silverton almost vomited whilst smelling and scratch and sniff book by David Walliams. Sam suggested I might find it on You Tube, and sure enough, here it is...
350 years ago and Pepys was also in the East End of London, first in Deptford, and then in Rotherhithe, which was known as Redriffe in those days. They stopped at the Halfway House, a pub which was exactly half way between Deptford and London Bridge, where they found a room “where there was infinite of new cakes placed that are made against Whitsuntide.” Pepys, Penn and one Mr Gauden were very merry there, apparently. Come to think of it, I too have eaten nothing but cake today and have been very merry. Thank God cake never goes out of fashion!
It’s reminded me how much I want to form a 16-voice choir. The idea would be for us to go professional very speedily, and put ourselves up for work in pop music, alongside premiering new work and performing music by other composers with a documentary twist. Various works by Berio spring to mind.
The group of singers tonight were such a talented and nice bunch. There was so much good will. Ellie came up from East Sussex, Tash came down from Northamptonshire. Sam conducted. A lot of the others were involved in the Pepys project, but there were some new faces as well. We went drinking afterwards in a lovely pub by the river and one of the singers, Nigel, kept us more than entertained with various impersonations and a bluffers guide to British sign language.
This morning I had a meeting at the BBC to talk about the homophobia film, which frustratingly still hasn’t been commissioned. We’re going away to look at a few extra avenues of research. There’s no point in doing this film unless we do it properly and I’m glad that BBC London are being thorough.
I laughed a lot this morning whilst watching BBC Breakfast, when a very pregnant Kate Silverton almost vomited whilst smelling and scratch and sniff book by David Walliams. Sam suggested I might find it on You Tube, and sure enough, here it is...
350 years ago and Pepys was also in the East End of London, first in Deptford, and then in Rotherhithe, which was known as Redriffe in those days. They stopped at the Halfway House, a pub which was exactly half way between Deptford and London Bridge, where they found a room “where there was infinite of new cakes placed that are made against Whitsuntide.” Pepys, Penn and one Mr Gauden were very merry there, apparently. Come to think of it, I too have eaten nothing but cake today and have been very merry. Thank God cake never goes out of fashion!
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